Last week, Curt Schilling was accused of self-aggrandizing ego worship for supposedly painting blood on his sock, or whatever it was. Schilling's impassioned defense of his own heroism was both absolutely correct — the man has a right to defend himself against false claims — and completely fitting, because it allowed Schilling to further do what he does almost as well as he pitches: Promote his own legend.

But Schilling, as skilled at self-inflation as he is, has nothing on Roger Clemens, who somehow conflated a Lou Gehrig moment for himself yesterday, a moment all the more pleasing for him because he didn't have to, you know, actually be dying. Clemens is the master of playing the prettiest girl at the prom, but yesterday might have been the most egregious example yet: Clemens really did fancy himself a god.

And gods do not come cheaply. Darren Rovell at CNBC has calculated Clemens' ridiculous salary, and discovered it makes no financial sense at all for the Yankees, even if they do make the playoffs. Clemens, when you do all the salary math, will make $8,888 a pitch; no amount of playoff ticketing and extra Clemens-ecstatic last-minute sales can make up that amount.

But Roger Clemens gets to feel like the conquering savior, and he gets to do it live. That 45-year-old arm better still have tons of oomph left, because yesterday's masturbatory construction is going to look awfully silly if he doesn't turn the Yankees around. Or, say, if he forgets that baseball's still steroid testing. Let's hope it doesn't turn into his "Mission: Accomplished" moment.